


It’s Just A Matter Of Time

by Coriander (JayTylerA)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Collars, Eventual Fluff, It’ll make sense just shut up and read i, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut, T, Themes of Segregation, Van Days, like basically omegas are segregated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-05 00:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18354584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTylerA/pseuds/Coriander
Summary: The collar rested heavy against Patrick’s neck, and he knew Pete could see it. His breathing picked up, and he almost dropped to his knees and begged for Pete not to hurt him. Alphas didn’t like Omegas, and Patrick hadn’t known Pete was an Alpha until now. Whenever he’d seen Pete at shows, from the segregated (safer, they said) Omega seating in the back, his nose had been too clogged with sweat to really smell anything, and Pete was small enough to be a Beta. He couldn’t be an Omega, though, because there was no collar on his neck, and Omegas weren’t supposed to be in bands, let alone frontman. Patrick knew that much. So to smell the waves of Alpha hormones flooding off of Pete scared him, and he hated his neck. “I’m...sorry...” he muttered, sinking back and whining softly. “Sorry...”





	1. Prologue: A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing Is More Than A Warning

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from “Sophomore Slump” by Fall Out Boy. Also, basically, Omegas in this universe are heavily segregated, like black people in the US during the Civil Rights Movement. Separate restrooms, seating, and they don’t dare leave the house alone for fear of being carted off by some Alpha, and things like that are ignored by any law enforcement. They also have to wear a collar around their neck with a tag stating their name and what to do if they’ve been found, like a dog collar. They’re seen as breeders, pretty much, and often regarded as property or less than human. They are legally owned by the Alpha that claims them and can only get out of the legal bond with evidence of extreme domestic violence, but most just stay in the relationships because most will never finish school and therefore can’t get a job. I’ve run my metaphorical mouth enough, just go ahead and read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing” by Set it Off ft. William Beckett, which y’all should totally go listen to.

     He was twelve when he presented. His mother, poor woman, thought he’d be a Beta. He wasn’t strong or tall or overly handsome like an Alpha, or feminine and petite and pretty and sweet-smelling like an Omega, so when she came in to wake him up for school and saw him shivering, drenching in sweat, and whimpering softly as a sweet smell permeated the room, she had en excuse for almost fainting. She gave Patrick his government-issued collar a week later, a simple leather band with a circular tag that said his name and what to do if he was found, just like a dog tag, and she silently withdrew him from school to homeschool him. His father later divorced her, saying he didn’t want to be known as the father of “one of  _them”_ as if Patrick could choose his caste. Oh, well. His father was an Alpha, after all, and Alphas were known for their dislike of Omegas aside from being playthings and breeders. 

     His mother was a Beta herself, and didn’t quite understand how to teach Patrick much more than basic knowledge skills he’d need for life and basic etiquette as an Omega, like crossing his legs and keeping his head down and not saying a word if Alphas groped him and baring his neck if he made an Alpha mad and getting on his knees and begging for forgiveness. Anything else was taught to him in public by strangers who slapped his face and called him “pretty but dumb”  before impatiently telling him he was wrong about something before telling him to get out of their sight and laughing about it to themselves, or if Patrick was especially unlucky, with their friends. By the time he was fifteen, he never spoke in public, kept his head down, and hardly left home alone, or at all, really. He had almost no friends, aside from a Beta boy, Joe, who didn’t care about his caste and the little girl next door, Cara, who was too little to know the difference. Her parents were moving, though, and he’d have to say goodbye to her. Sad, she was the only person, including Joe, who didn’t look at him either with pity, disgust, or disgusting arousal.

     Sometimes, an Alpha would be nice to him, ask him his name instead of just grabbing his collar and reading it, treat him like royalty, only to try to guilt him into sleeping with them or letting them claim him on he grounds of, “Well I was nice to you, you should be nice to me,” and Patrick would run away from him and not leave home for at least two weeks while his mother called the authorities. They never did anything. Hell, Patrick was sure they’d eventually take him away from his mother on the grounds of “possible abuse” because she wasn’t able to teach him proper etiquette for an Omega, and then throw him at some Alpha that was thirty years older than him as a “foster parent” when really he knew they were tossing him away to be bred. That thought scared him more than anything else.

     When Patrick turned sixteen, a streak of defiance started in him. He didn’t want to be oppressed anymore, he wanted to have his own voice and his own thoughts and his own opinions, not just be docile and demure and modest and silent like a “good little Omega” should be. He started sneaking out at night, going to hardcore concerts and, even though he stayed in the segregated Omega seating in the back, he screamed his heart out and danced and was loud and boisterous and violent, until he got smacked in the face by an Alpha who called him a bitch and attempted to drag him outside and claim him, only to be beaten off by Joe and some of his Alpha buddies, who brushed him off and took him home to his mother with a broken wrist, a bloody nose, and three chipped teeth. She locked his window from the outside after that, and had a tracker installed in his collar. Even his mother turned on him. Sad, but Patrick understood. If he snuck out one night and never came home, having been kidnapped and claimed by some disgusting Alpha, his mother would never forgive herself.

     Patrick snuck out sometimes anyway, picking the lock on his window and sneaking back in the wee hours of the morning after shitty concerts from shitty bands with shitty names like Arma Angelus. He usually went to see those concerts because Joe was in them, and honestly, while they were still pretty awful, they weren’t half as bad as some of the others there. Plus, their singer was hot. A Beta, Pete Wentz, twenty-two, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, short, dark-skinned (Patrick had seen him around town with a short black lady in tow, probably his mother) tattooed, and really, really attractive. He was out of Patrick’s league, because Patrick was even shorter and an Omega and still seven-fucking-teen and maybe a little chunky and shy but at the same time talked too much. Plus, he’d seen Pete with a girl, Janet or Janey or something like that, so he was off-limits. Plus, Patrick would probably only be allowed to be with an Alpha. While Beta-Omega relationships weren’t uncommon, they were seen as a little strange, and Patrick wanted to avoid any attention when it came to that.

     He was still just seventeen when Joe offered for him to join a band. Drummer, he said. Patrick immediately declined, “Joe, I can’t. You know I can’t. Just look at me, I’m...I’d get kidnapped or back-alley raped or something, you don’t want me,” but Joe managed to talk him into with the words, “But Pete Wentz is in it,” and damn Joe for using his crush on Pete against him.

     So, he used his best attempt to hide his Omega-ness from Pete. An argyle sweater, one with a long neck to at least somewhat hide his collar, shorts, and knee socks. Well, at least he looked ugly enough that Pete would be distracted enough by the horrible combination not to notice the thin strip of leather poking out from beneath the neck of the sweater or the huge amount of scent-reducers he’d used in a futile attempt to smell less like peaches and cream and sugar and fertility. Even if Pete was a Beta, he didn’t want to scare off any chance of friendship (or maybe something more) with his being an Omega.

     Joe said they’d come to his place, so Patrick left the door unlocked for them. They must have come in while he was in the bathroom upstairs, because when he got back down, Joe was already digging through his record collection (he made a mental note to punch his friend later) and there was Pete Wentz, sprawled all over his couch, a can of Coke likely pilfered from the fridge in his hand. He was talking to Joe about something when he met Patrick’s eyes and said loudly, “The fuck is this kid wearing?” And Patrick almost whined because fuck, Pete was most definitely  _not_ a Beta.

     Wave after wave of Alpha pheromones hit him and Patrick shrank back. Maybe Pete was about to hit his rut? Or maybe Patrick was about to have a heat? (His heat schedule was still messed up, as it likely would be until he had children, so he never knew) Or maybe even both? Patrick shuddered and stepped back, unable to stop the rush of hormones he released into the room. 

     The collar rested heavy against Patrick’s neck, and he knew Pete could see it. His breathing picked up, and he almost dropped to his knees and begged for Pete not to hurt him. Alphas didn’t like Omegas, and Patrick hadn’t known Pete was an Alpha until now. Whenever he’d seen Pete at shows, from the segregated (safer, they said) Omega seating in the back, his nose had been too clogged with sweat to really smell anything, and Pete was small enough to be a Beta. He couldn’t be an Omega, though, because there was no collar on his neck, and Omegas weren’t supposed to be in bands, let alone frontman. Patrick knew that much. So to smell the waves of Alpha hormones flooding off of Pete scared him, and he hated his neck. “I’m...sorry...” he muttered, sinking back and whining softly. “Sorry...I should...I should go. Just...leave before my mom gets home...” and Patrick attempted to back out of the room before Joe grabbed him by the shirt collar and Patrick tensed before flicking his eyes to Pete, who was staring at him with wide eyes. “Is it something I said?” He asked, as if his scent wasn’t driving Patrick crazy.

    “Pete, you asshole, I told you to at least try to make yourself stink less. I told you about him being...you know,” and Pete snorted. “Come on, that has to be a joke. No way you managed to talk an Omega into...” Patrick almost fell to his knees when Joe stuck his fingers underneath the leather of his collar and dragged it out of his shirt. “Oh. Uh. Shit. Sorry, kid. I thought ol’ Joetroh was playing a prank on me, sorry I stink right now. I haven’t showered in like, four days,” Patrick wrinkled his nose, suddenly way less attracted to Pete when he realized most of what he was smelling was grime. Patrick removed Joe’s fingers from his collar and went to dig through a dresser and pulled out an almost-empty tube of scent-neutralizing deodorant, tossing it to Pete. “Thanks, kid,” Pete said, smiling and Patrick’s knees went a little weak.

     A few minutes later, after introductions and Patrick getting a little more used to being around an Alpha, Pete said, “Alright, Rickster,” Pete seemed to have made approximately 4,556,770 nicknames in the twenty minutes he’d known Patrick, “Show us your shit. You wanted to audition, right?” And Patrick almost froze, nervousness flooding his veins. “Uh...yeah, sure. I won’t be that good, and you won’t want an Omega in the band, I’d be too much of a risk-“

     “Hey! Hey, none of that. We’ll fight off anyone who tries to touch you. Plus, we don’t give a shit if you’re Alpha, Beta, Omega, or fucking Delta for that matter, if you’re good, we want you. And I’m sure you’ll be great,” Pete gave him a wink and Patrick melted. “Um,” Patrick said, ever the intellectual as he stood and went to the shitty little kit in the corner.

     His hands shook as he played out a beat, before he relaxed into it and kept going, his hands falling into a rhythm that he knew at least sounded okay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe mutter something in Pete’s ear, but only stopped when his shoulder popped slightly. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?” 

     “No, not bad at all. Hell, you’re better than Arma’s drummer, but...Joe here says you sing,” and Patrick’s heart fell. He made another mental note to pull Joe’s testicles out through his nipples. “No. I’m not singing. I sound terrible, I’m not a singer, and being a singer means being frontman, and that’s not safe for me-“ 

     “Patrick. Sing for us. Just a little. Please?” Pete (that dick) released some pheromones and Patrick melted. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to talk himself out of it, before almost against his will, he started singing a snippet of some random song he’d heard on the radio, stumbling over the words and cursing himself when his voice almost cracked on the last note. 

     “I told you I sound bad,” Patrick said softly, opening his eyes. Pete and Joe were staring at him with wide eyes, Pete’s stolen can of Coke halfway to his wide-open mouth. “Bad?  _Bad?_ Shit, if you sound bad, I must sound like a dying donkey,” Pete set his Coke on the carpeted floor. “I mean, I already sound like a dying donkey, but you...you got something there with that voice,”

     And this is exactly how Patrick ended up singing in a band that didn’t want to be in, with an Alpha he barely knew, and a Beta who was consistently stoned. Patrick’s life confused him more than he ever thought it possibly could sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Don’t Mind Us, We’re Just Spilling Our Guts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shit...” Pete coughed and snubbed the cherry of his cigarette in the hard, dry dirt beside Patrick’s arm. Patrick almost reprimanded him for the fire hazard, and then remembered that Pete was trying to quit smoking and didn’t need Patrick hounding him about fire hazards. “Shit’s tough to quit, man. I get bitchy if I can’t get a smoke. I’m trying to make it so I run out of lighters before I run out of cigarettes. I always forget to buy lighters, you know? And I’ve been playing with them constantly to make them run out faster...” Pete trailed off, and Patrick had a feeling Pete was spilling his guts a little, even though they hardly knew each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Sarcasm” by Get Scared, which y’all should totally go listen to.

       Pete tried to play tonsil-hockey with him two days after they met. Apparently, he’d sounded “fucking badass, Trickerdoodle wafer, fucking bad  _ass”_ and  Pete, for some unfathomable reason, felt the need to shove his tongue into Patrick’s throat because of how “fucking badass” he sounded while singing some random song Pete had written at three in the morning on the back of a grocery receipt. 

     Pete tasted like cigarettes, coffee, weed, and stale beer. Patrick barely managed to push him off before his lungs collapsed from lack of air and he gave Pete a good slap in the face for his efforts. Pete just laughed his fool head off and turned the other cheek, asking for another. 

     Another which Patrick gladly gave, about three times harder.

     Pete was knocked back slightly, holding his cheek and giving Patrick a strange look. Any other Alpha would have  slapped him in the face or maybe broken his nose or worse for even pulling away, but Pete just sort of looked at him. “How did you know I had a thing for pain, Tricky? Keep going, it turns me on,” Pete attempted to get back to Patrick, his arms outstretched, before being pushed off by Joe, who was looking thoroughly disgusted by the display. “I’m too sober for this shit, stop molesting him, please Pete?” Pete put his hands up in surrender and went back to his bass where it was sitting haphazardly on the stained carpet.

     “Okay, let’s...try that again,” Patrick said, eyes flicking to whoever was standing in as drummer again while they waited for Pete’s “friend” to call back. Patrick had a sneaking suspicion Pete’s friend didn’t actually exist and he was still trying to kiss Andy Hurley’s ass to get him to play for them, the band with a chunky blonde kid for their lead singer, a stoned Jew for a guitarist, and a Pete Wentz for a poor excuse of a bassist.

     In Patrick’s mind, now that he was close enough to hear everything a little better, Pete didn’t so much as play music as rip it to shreds. With a jackhammer. He was usually too focused on doing dumb shit like climbing on amps and sticking his tongue into Patrick’s mouth and spinning in circles, even during practices, that the music was so bad it made Patrick physically hurt. 

     After managing to stumble their way through another grocery receipt song, the drummer, Patrick couldn’t remember the name for the life of him, muttered something about picking up a sister from school and hauled ass out of the basement, eyes flicking to Patrick momentarily. He made a mental note to tell Pete to not let that guy back into the band, he gave Patrick the creeps.

     A few more practices later, and Pete managed to talk Patrick into doing something “only a little illegal, Tricky, come on, it’s just trespassing, I do it all the time, I never get caught! Please?” And he released more damn pheromones (Patrick made another mental note to break into Pete’s house and chemically castrate him) and Patrick couldn’t stop his traitorous mouth from saying, “Fine,” long and drawn out like a child agreeing to eat his broccoli.

     This is how Patrick found himself holding down barbed wire for Pete as he hopped the fence to the local baseball field at half past midnight. When he pulled his hands away from the wires, they were slightly bloodied and he swore loudly as the sting hit him. “Why did I agree to this again?” Patrick grumbled to Pete, holding his bleeding hands to his chest. Pete grinned at him, his stupidly big, white teeth glittering in the low light. “Because I’m awesome and you know I’m trying to make you as awesome as me,” and Patrick cursed Pete’s name.

     Pete dragged him into the middle of the dry, grassless field. It was September, and barely even forty-five degrees at night in Wilmette, Illinois, so there was no hope that grass might grow on the field this late in the year. Pete and Patrick laid on their backs, side by side, eyes turned up at the sky. It was an unusually clear night, so the light pollution from nearby busy Chicago didn’t seem nearly as bad, and Patrick could almost see some stars. 

     The sound of a lighter flicking caught his attention, and Patrick watched as Pete lit a cigarette. The end flickered brighter, illuminating Pete’s face a little more as he inhaled. It had been one of Pete’s habits that shocked Patrick a bit, smoking regular tobacco cigarettes. Sure, he knew Pete smoked weed and drank and, honestly, probably did hardcore shit sometimes, but for some reason, cigarette smoking shocked him.

     “I was so dumb when I started. Smoking, that is,” Pete said beside him, making Patrick jump a bit. “I wanted...I wanted my voice to get all scratchy, so I’d have more of a gravelly sound when I screamed. Shit fucked up my throat, my lungs, my voice, not that it wasn’t already bad,” Pete took another long drag, the end lighting up again. “Been trying to quit since I started, shit’s gonna kill me if I don’t...do it myself first,” Patrick tensed, fingers digging into the hard, dry dirt. “You know I’m just fucking with you, right, ‘Trick?” Pete said, a little too quickly, and Patrick just nodded even thought Pete probably couldn’t see him. Here Pete was, spilling his guts to someone who he hardly knew.

     Patrick watched the smoke drift lazily out of Pete’s mouth, forming a ring before fading off into the dull orange light the finally flicked on across the road like it should have five hours ago. “Never start smoking, kid. It’ll kill you, not to mention ruin that gorgeous voice. My ticket out of this one horse town, all of our ticket. Golden ticket, Tricky. Gorgeous voice, don’t ever doubt it,” Pete said, and took another drag off the ever-dwindling cigarette. “If you say so, Pete,” Patrick muttered, sensing Pete’s slight distress and trying to calm him a little.

     “Shit...” Pete coughed and snubbed the cherry of his cigarette in the hard, dry dirt beside Patrick’s arm. Patrick almost reprimanded him for the fire hazard, and then remembered that Pete was trying to quit smoking and didn’t need Patrick hounding him about fire hazards. “Shit’s tough to quit, man. I get bitchy if I can’t get a smoke. I’m trying to make it so I run out of lighters before I run out of cigarettes. I always forget to buy lighters, you know? And I’ve been playing with them constantly to make them run out faster...” Pete trailed off, and Patrick had a feeling Pete was spilling his guts a little, even though they hardly knew each other.

     “I don’t know what to tell you,” Patrick said honestly, reaching over and fiddling with Pete’s cigarette butt. “If you want to quit, I’m right behind you. Neither of my parents smoked, as far as I know, and neither of my siblings smoke, either, so I’ve never really experienced anyone trying to quit, but...yeah. I...bet it’s tough,” Patrick mentally high-gives his own face. Of course it was tough, dingus!

     Pete said nothing for a moment, and Patrick worried he’d done something wrong, and he almost started begging forgiveness, pheromones seeping out before he could stop them, and Pete just laughed his loud, braying, donkeyish laugh. “No need for that, Tricky Ricky. I’m not mad, don’t try to butter me up, you had me sold when you opened your mouth and sang for me,” and Patrick relaxed again, drumming his fingers against his arm and sighing, barely noticing when Pete turned and stared at him for a moment.

     “Think you could sing for me again? That song from earlier today? From the notebook? Where is your boy? That one?” Pete seemed to ask a million questions for just trying to get Patrick to sing. Pete say up some more so that he was looking almost directly over Patrick, weight resting on his right arm. “Come on, Pattycakes. Sing for me,” and, well, there was no one else around, and it was like one in the morning and Patrick was tired and little bit loopy, so Patrick cleared his throat and sang out softly, “ _Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman...”_ and Pete looked at him like he was every good thing in the universe combined into one.

     “My golden ticket, Patrick,” Pete said breathlessly when Patrick was done, his eyes shining in the dim light, honey gold instead of whiskey brown with the orange tint. “My ticket out of Wilmette, my ticket out of Illinois, my ticket to...to  _everything,_ Trick,” and Patrick couldn’t help but smile at Pete’s expression of wonder.

     That smile quickly faded away at the sound of voices and the word “trespassing” and Pete just grinned at him while Patrick pushed him off and made a run for it. 

     Patrick barely managed to make it over the fence, Pete not far behind. Pete grabbed his hand, and just as the people, (cops, they just had to be cops) screamed, “Hey, you! You shouldn’t be out so la- hey, get back here!” And started chasing them on foot, Patrick couldn’t help but let his smile return. Here he was, with the Pete Wentz, a man he’d met only a few weeks prior, running from the cops at one in the morning. It reminded him of his rebellious days, when he would sneak out and sneak back in but now Pete was here with him and he was smiling, too, whooping as they turned corners, barely outrunning the cops and managing to stumble back into Patrick’s house, Pete picking the lock on Patrick’s window and pushing them both inside, laughing hysterically. Patrick vaguely wondered what his mother thought all the commotion was.

     Soon, their laughter died down to occasional little bursts and Patrick managed to properly use his inhaler, as all that running had worked him up quite a bit, and Pete made himself at home in Patrick’s bed. 

     “Dude, get out of my bed. You have your own,” Patrick grumbled, still slightly winded. Pete, the athletic little shit, mock pouted and said, “But my bed is so far away, it’s all the way at my house! And your bed smells nice, it smells like you-“

     “Okay, okay, fine! You can sleep in the bed! Just, move over, I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Patrick said, and Pete grinned at him, sliding towards the wall, hogging the blankets. “Thanks, Ricky. I’ll be gone before your mom wakes up, but I can’t promise I won’t stay for cuddles. You’ve got these sweet little love handles-ow, Jesus Christ, you’re strong!” Pete rubbed his cheek where Patrick slapped him. “Your hands are not going to be anywhere near my “love handles,” as you call them or else you’re sleeping in the doghouse in the yard,”

     After some negotiating, and a lot of playful, unnecessary groping from Pete, they were comfortably situated in Patrick’s bed. Patrick almost wanted to laugh again. An Alpha he barely knew, here in his bed. What a roar! 

     He fell asleep to Pete’s calming scent and soft warmth, Pete’s arms wrapped almost protectively around his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed.


	3. With a Pink Carnation and a Pickup Truck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Joe’s van, or “music machine” as they called it, was an ancient monstrosity of a vehicle with two working doors, an emergency exit in the back, a rusty trailer hitch, and an engine prone to overheating. The pot smoke was like ten years thick, and Patrick was worried that if he touched the cracking pleather seats, he’d contract HIV.  
> He was glad his mother agreed to send him before she’d seen the vehicle he’d be going in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “American Pie” by Don McLean, one of my favorite songs in the universe, which y’all should totally go listen to. Seriously. Do it.

 

     Pete was at least nice enough to leave Patrick alone when he went into heat. Four solid days of Pete-free bliss, aside from dehydration from so many orgasms, being unable to do anything but eat, drink, sleep and shower, and usually trying to muffle his moans as he jerked off so his mom wouldn’t be bothered.

     Yeah, he wasn’t sure this was much better than having Pete around, especially because when he returned to band practice after his heat, having forgotten to use scent-blocking soap when he showered in his tired, still orgasm-stupid haze, and Pete stared at him openly as his natural scent flooded the room. Pete grinned at him after a moment, saying, “Damn, you smell sweet, Peppermint Pattycakes, you should go into heat more often,” and Patrick very nearly strangled Pete for that comment until Joe and whoever the drummer was managed to pull him off. (What? He was only passing out  _a little bit!_ Patrick would have stopped before he died. Maybe.)

     Patrick grumbled slightly as he was pulled off and Pete regained his footing, eyeing Patrick warily before his signature million-watt grin and said, “Choke me harder, I like it,” and seriously, did  _everything_ have to be an innuendo with Pete? Joe rubbed his temples, and Patrick took note of where his roots were growing back in, a solid half-inch of brown against the rest of the bleached mess that Joe called hair. He’d be sure to use that against him one day.

     “Pete. Please, just stop. All of use are too sober for this shit,” Joe said again, muttering something about weed as he made his way back to his guitar. “Okay, let’s try that again,” he said, and the drummer just looked at all of them like they were insane.

     Three songs later, and Patrick was honestly unaware that one band could suck so badly. Seriously, if Patrick had been watching them from the crowd, he’d have probably booed them offstage within the first song. The drummer finally gave up, (Tony? Toby? Timmy? Something like that,) threw the drumsticks down and stormed out of Patrick’s basement and yelled back that he’d let all his friends know how bad they were.

     Joe damn near threw his guitar at the wall. “Well, there goes our drummer. The hell are we gonna do now? That’s the last one that would give us a chance!” Patrick sympathized with Joe a little bit, but he couldn’t help but be a little bit relieved. Yeah, no drummer meant no band, but no band meant that Patrick was safe from not only being back-alley raped by some crazed drunk guy at a shitty venue, but also he’d never have to deal with Pete’s shit again. But apparently, Pete had other plans. 

     Pete, with that too-big, shit-eating grin on his face, said, “But Joe, I got us a drummer. His name is Andy Hurley,” and Patrick wanted to simultaneously kiss and make Pete die a slow, torturous death.

     Patrick wasn’t sure what to expect when he met Andy Hurley. Maybe someone even more music-obsessed than Patrick, maybe someone who was maybe a bit overbearing or loud and brash. He’d seen Andy before, with all those colorful tattoos and bulging muscles, so he expected a personality just as strong as his body. He didn’t expect a shy, quiet Beta kid with a high voice that didn’t drink, smoke, or eat animal products but also wouldn’t take Pete’s shit either. Patrick instantly liked Andy.

     “Is he safe?” Andy has asked when he saw Patrick, collar very visible above the hem of his t-shirt, smell permeating the room as he cleaned up another one of Pete’s messes. Sometimes he swore he’d just have to put Pete into a cheesy French maid’s outfit and force him to clean up his own shit. Although Pete would probably like that, so maybe not.

     “Yeah, he’s fine, Patrick can take care of himself. Isn’t that right, Tricky?” Pete said, getting a bit too close to Patrick’s ass for him to be comfortable, especially because he was bending down. Patrick quickly stood up and gave Pete a solid punch in the chest, saying, “Don’t touch me, you creep. I don’t wanna catch anything you have,” before going back to picking up yet another discarded cigarette butt. So Pete had been chain-smoking again in Patrick’s basement before practice. He made sure to tell his mom to put a smoke detector down there so Pete would stop smoking in his basement and making him almost choke to death. 

     “No, I mean...if you take home to venues and shit, is he safe? Like, he’s not gonna get like, dragged off or anything, is he?” Patrick tensed, honestly not knowing the answer. Behind him, Joe froze, likely remembering the time he had to bring Patrick back to his mother, bloodied, bruised, and broken and Patrick hadn’t been allowed out of the house for weeks. “If anyone tries anything, we can just beat them off ourselves,” Pete said confidently, before pulling Patrick up by the back of his shirt and pushing him to the little space they’d cleared for their instruments, and by cleared, Patrick meant shoved random boxes out of the way and gotten rid of the dust bunnies.

     This practice was the best so far, with Pete for once actually trying, Joe slightly less stoned than usual, Patrick’s voice on point, and Andy’s godlike drumming. Andy eyed him warily, as if sizing him up or making sure he wasn’t lip-syncing or something, before shrugging and asking if there was any vegan-friendly food.

     Three days later, Pete announced that he found a way to go on tour. Immediately, Patrick refused. “Oh, hell no. That’s not safe for me, and even if it was, my mom would never let me go-“ Pete cut him off with a smile, simply stating, “Don’t worry, Trickster. I’m really good at speaking Nervous Mom. Plus, Patricia likes me, she thinks I’m a nice guy. There’s no way she’ll say no!”

     “I’m sorry, Pete, but I’m afraid I’ll have to say no,” Patrick’s mom said, looking frantically between the four of them. Patrick wanted to interrupt, but she was already saying, “Patrick, honey, I know you want to go, but...” she flicked her eyes back to Pete, “even with a protective Alpha with you, it’s not safe for you. If you got hurt, I’d never forgive myself,” she reached across the table and gently held Patrick’s hand, looking genuinely sorry. “I’m afraid we need Patrick on this tour, Patricia. See, he’s...got this absolutely amazing voice, and we need a singer. We can’t find anyone anywhere near as good as Patrick here, and there’s nowhere he’d be safer than with us. Don’t worry, there won’t be any drugs or drinking or girls, or boys, for that matter, and we’ll be there with him every step of the way and he’ll call you every single day and-“ Pete looked like he could go on for hours, buttering Patrick’s mom up like a Thanksgiving turkey, more than he already had with the bundle of pale pink roses he brought for her, before she finally relented. 

     “Okay, Pete. He can go. I expect you boys to take care of him,” she said, before standing threateningly, “or you’ll wish you were never born. And Patrick, please, stay with them. And while I’m here, I want to lay down some ground rules. No drugs, no drinking, no sex-“ Patrick shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to feel about that, “and if he goes into heat...you boys leave him alone. If I smell even a trace of one of you on him, say goodbye to your balls,” and Pete nodded happily, Joe dopily smiling and nodding along with him, Andy just staring at her with wide eyes.

     Patrick honestly couldn’t be more shocked that it didn’t take a month to convince her. To have Pete do it in five minutes flat, well, Patrick was impressed and terrified to say the least. “Patrick, dude. Your mom is scary,” Andy said, turning to look at Patrick. “I haven’t even done anything and I feel like a criminal,”

     Three days after Patrick’s mom had given the OK, Pete and Joe announced at the end of practice one day that they had a van.

      Pete and Joe’s van, or “music machine” as they called it, was an ancient monstrosity of a vehicle with two working doors, an emergency exit in the back, a rusty trailer hitch, and an engine prone to overheating. The pot smoke was like ten years thick, and Patrick was worried that if he touched the cracking pleather seats, he’d contract HIV.  
He was glad his mother agreed to send him before she’d seen the vehicle he’d be going in.

     Patrick made sure to pack enough scent-suppressing deodorant to numb anyone’s nose, even though he knew everyone would know already. He couldn’t exactly take off his collar, the thing was locked on with a latch only his mother, or if he ever had one, his mate could take off, and even if he could, he had the faintest of tan lines where it sat. Plus, he likely wouldn’t be showering for quite some time, so his natural scent would really have some time to build up. He sighed at the thought and shoved in another pair of clean boxers, before finding an old pair of his brother’s and shoving those in, too.

     He totally forgot to pack his toothbrush. 

     “Call me whenever you can, okay, honey? And make sure you stay safe, stick with Pete, don’t go anywhere alone, have a buddy with you, stay out of trouble, stay with someone after dark, don’t talk to strange Alphas, or Betas...you know, just don’t talk to any strangers-“ Patrick cut his mom off with a kiss on the cheek. “I get it, Mom, I’ll be fine. Don’t talk to anyone who isn’t Pete, Joe, or Andy, call you every hour of every day, stay inside after dark. I get it, I’ll be okay. I love you,” he called, starting to walk away as his mom yelled back, “Love you, too, honey! Be safe!” As he crawled into a van filled with three other boys and enough pot smoke to kill a small child.

     Driving buddies were immediately designated as Pete and Patrick, Joe and Andy, and they’d drive in six-hour shifts if they could. Six weeks, five states, a lot of Bumblefuck, Nowhere towns, very few showers, and a lot, a lot of open windows and stripping almost naked because the heat had to be on or else the engine would overheat and they’d all be dead and even more playing shitty music for shitty crowds in shitty venues.

     “Paaaaaatriiiiiiiiiiick,” Pete said, already having stripped out of most of his clothes and sprawled across the middle seat and everything in the middle seat, including, but not limited to, an amp, a notebook, and Patrick’s lap. “Paaaaaaaaaaaaatriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick,” he said again, in that irritating, off-key singsong voice. “You should strip, too. You’d look a lot better without all those clothes-ow, shit, fucker!” Pete screeched, holding his now-bloodied lip. “I’m not taking anything off,” Patrick said, stubbornly jamming his hat onto his head a little harder. “If you two don’t shut up back there, we are turning this car around right now!” Joe screamed, and Pete said back sarcastically, “Yes, Mom,”

     Patrick seriously regretted ever meeting any of these people.

    He grumpily pulled his iPod out of his pocket and shoved his earbuds into his ears. Bowie’s “Suffragette City” started playing, and Patrick relaxed slightly.

     It was going to be a long six weeks if he had to keep putting up with these motherfuckers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times did I type the word orgasm in a smut-free chapter? Too many, that’s how many. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! I might not update for a bit, as I have exams soon, and I’m usually either losing my shit or procrastinating, so I have a busy schedule. See you in the next chapter!


	4. Baby, You’re the Highlight of my Lowlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t a dream. This was Patrick, hardly even nervous, onstage, in front of maybe fifty people, not shaking, proud, even though everyone could see everything about him, his collar, his clothes, his awkward chubbiness, his horrible clothing choices, his general Omega-ness, but they didn’t care and Patrick didn’t care as he belted out the words to the songs.  
> They sounded terrible that night, and Joe bruised, maybe even broke a rib because he fell because he was spinning around like an idiot during the last song and Andy broke both of his drumsticks and Pete snapped a bass string and Patrick’s voice broke more times than he could count, but the crowd seemed to love it and and they actually got the money they asked for and Patrick didn’t even try to push Pete away when he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Lowlife” by Poppy, which y’all should totally go listen to.

     A week in, and Patrick could hardly take any more of Pete’s shit. Any time Patrick was driving, Pete seemed to really just...want them all to get into a crash and die. He poked Patrick’s forehead, tugged at his collar, pulled his hair, played with his sideburns, and was generally the worst driving buddy anyone could ever ask for. Whenever Patrick wasn’t driving and was, therefore, trying to sleep or eat or trying to get Joe and Andy to stop for a piss break, Pete was trying to get Patrick to strip completely naked, much to everyone else’s chagrin.

     “Come on, Trick! It’s like, eighty million degrees in here!” Pete squawked, in a pair of briefs that left very little to the imagination (Andy finally relented and let Pete wear those instead of boxers, but threatened to kick him out at he nearest gas station if he even  _tried_ to take them off in the van) and even then, the briefs were barely on, proudly showing off the bartskull tattoo and a fading hickey just above his left hipbone. Probably from Jordan or Jeanie, whatever her name was, if he was even still with her. Last he heard, the Jackie or Joanie girl was sleeping with some guy her own age for once, so it was probably either a hookup from just before they left or just after their first show.

     “Pete, no. I’m not stripping down for you, that’s just...no,” Patrick said stubbornly, zipping his hoodie up a little more just to piss Pete off. Pete pouted, his stupid giant mouth looking absurdly like a pink banana. “But Triiiiick,” he whined, sprawling across Patrick’s lap, “you’ll like...die of heatstroke or something! And how am I going to become a millionaire without an awesome singer like you?” Pete batted his eyes and Patrick so badly wanted to bruise one shut with his own fist. “Pleeeaasseeee? Just one little layer, and I’ll be satisfied,” Patrick looked at him, and begrudgingly agreed that he would die of heatstroke if he didn’t shed a layer or six, so he proceeded to grab a random hoodie from the floor, probably Joe’s, and pulled it over his head. Death by heatstroke would probably be a better fate than having to deal with Pete Wentz for one more goddamn second.

     Andy banged on the back of his seat, barely managing to keep his eyes on the road. “If you two don’t shut up back there, I’m dumping one of you on the side of the road! And by one of you, I mean Pete!” Pete grunted angrily and turned so he could kick the back of Andy’s seat. “Why me and not Patrick?” He groaned dramatically, and Patrick felt the entire van tense. Even Pete seemed to realize his mistake. Before he could say anything though, Andy answered for him, “Three reasons: one! Patrick’s mom is really fucking scary, and I, for one, value my balls still being attached. Two! Patrick is our singer, and we can’t just find another one around some dusty corner, rather than you, Pete, a very shitty bassist, who we can find by talking to any twelve-year-old that goes to church. Three...” Patrick tensed when Andy trailed off, knowing that this reason was the main one. “He’s not safe out there. He’s an Omega, and he’s not exactly trying to hide it, what with that damn collar flopping around all the time. No offense to you, Patrick,” Andy said quickly, but the damage was already done. 

     Patrick huffed and turned away, ignoring everyone best he could. Pete was quiet for a moment, and Patrick basked in the momentary peace, before Pete, like the dumb little shit he was, asked, “Hey, Patrick, can I take off your collar?” And that simple statement alone resulted in what was basically a small violent uprising among the band. Andy swore and almost drove them off he road, Joe spit out a mouthful of Red Bull along the dash, and Patrick immediately started screaming at Pete. “Pete, God, no! Do you have any idea what doing that could mean?! And even if I let you, you couldn’t, it’s locked on. I can’t even take it off when I shower, my mom has the key and-“ but Pete was one step ahead of him. 

     In his right hand, he held a random safety pin, probably stolen from the Dollar Tree they stopped at a few days earlier, and in the other he had a needle he claimed he was saving in case he wanted to give himself a stickpoke, and he was already working on the tiny lock on the back of Patrick’s collar. A small  _click_ was heard, and Patrick felt the collar loosening, before Pete grabbed it by the tag and removed it from his neck. For the first time in almost six years, Patrick wasn’t wearing a collar. He felt oddly naked, exposed, vulnerable. Andy had pulled over and turned off the van to stare at the ordeal, and Joe’s mouth was open, can of Red Bull almost falling out of his hand. Patrick felt panicky. An Alpha, and two Betas, all of whom were staring at him, so naked and vulnerable and they were all a lot bigger and stronger than him and even though Patrick knew they would never hurt him, Patrick whimpered and his body released wave after wave of almost sickeningly sweet pheromones. 

     “I’m sorry...I’m sorry...please, Pete, put it back...just put it back...” Patrick wanted to cry. He was so scared, and even if he knew it was stupid, the guys would all sooner cut off their own heads than even  _think_ about hurting Patrick, but some part of his lizard brain, some part of his brain that saw the collar as part of who he was, wanted that safety, that security back. He felt so exposed, so naked, and he wanted that one scrap of clothing back. 

     Joe said something that Patrick didn’t hear, and then Pete was fastening the collar back onto his neck and clicking the little lock back into place. Immediately, Patrick felt more secure and his heart rate went back down to a somewhat normal pace. “I’m sorry...” Patrick muttered again, shrinking away from where Pete was trying to comfort him with a foul-smelling hug.

     The show that night was the worst they’d had in a long time. Halfway through Saturday, Patrick started having a panic attack and he had to be dragged offstage by the bartender. There was no medic on hand, so they had to drag a crying Patrick back into the van so that Pete could calm him down with wave after wave of Alpha pheromones. It took half an hour, a lot of crying from Patrick, and a lot of soothing cooing and shushing noises from Pete before Patrick was back to being sort-of himself, but he thanked Pete profusely. Pete just smiled kind of sadly at him and didn’t say anything. Patrick knew why. He’d heard Pete having enough nightmares and seen the occasional glow of a flashlight and shaky hands writing in shitty notebooks at four in the morning to know that Pete had had enough of them himself.

     Patrick was off for the next three shows.  No more onstage panic attacks, but he was constantly even more terrified than usual. He secretly blamed Pete, for taking off his collar. Had his mother never told him to never take off anything’s collar, from a dog to an Omega? Or did Pete just not care? Patrick wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

     Pete, on the other hand, was as obnoxious and boisterous as ever. He belched, farted, swore, and laughed his braying laugh while Joe threw empty soda cans at him. He continued to torture Patrick, as well, kissing his neck or pulling his sideburns or drawing penises on his face in his sleep. With fucking Sharpie. Oh, well. At least he never touched Patrick’s collar again. 

     One night, everything came to a head. Patrick hadn’t slept well, and neither had Pete. They had a shortage of cash, and therefore, a shortage of caffeine, so both of them were irritable and cranky. Pete, however, when he was irritable and cranky, didn’t see the need to try and get more sleep to maybe be a little less irritable and cranky, so he was insufferable the whole day. 

     Around nine that evening, they stopped for a piss break at some random Sheetz in Nowheresville, Wisconsin and Patrick stepped out, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Pete was already out, and smoking a cigarette. Patrick noticed that he was smoking less and less, even though his smoke stash wasn’t really decreasing. He must have been keeping his promise of using up his lighters first. Good for him.

     Pete blew a smoke ring into the dusty night air. Patrick couldn’t see it that well with the bright, fluorescent lights from the Sheetz, but he saw it dissipate into nothing rather quickly. “We’re gonna make if, Trick,” Pete said, snubbing the cherry on the brick beside him, before patting his pockets for another cigarette. “Pete, no. You were trying to quit, remember?” This seemed to tick Pete off. Patrick vaguely remembered that Pete hadn’t taken his medicine that morning and was likely to go off over nothing. In his delirious state of mind, Patrick thought,  _fucking bipolar asshole._

   Pete glared at Patrick as he lit up another cigarette. The flame from the lighter was barely enough to light the smoke. “I’ll do what I damn well please. I don’t need some kid telling me what to do,” Pete flocked Patrick’s forehead none-too-playfully. “Pete, you were trying to quit, you should put it out and just leave it. Chain smoking is really bad for you,” Patrick insisted, and Patrick could almost hear Pete snap.

     “Shut your goddamn mouth! If I wanted some mouthy Omega kid to tell me what to do with my life, I would have hired a hooker! All you fuckin’ Omegas are good for anyway!” And Patrick felt tears rush to his eyes. Pete seemed to realize his mistake one second too late. The cigarette fell from his fingers and he started apologizing, “Patrick, I didn’t-“ but he couldn’t get a word out before Patrick’s fist collided with his unprotected jaw.

     Pete yelled and clutched his jaw, turning his eyes onto Patrick. His gaze was full of fury. “Okay, that’s it, you little fucker,” Pete said, voice full of venom, and he punched Patrick in the eye. Lucky he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Patrick yelped and backed up, forcing himself to not beg or try to calm Pete down with his scent. Instead, his resisted every instinct in his body and punched back, right into Pete’s solar plexus. There was a slight pop, and Pete took a step back, but Patrick was prepared. He ducked Pete’s punch to his gut and got a decent kick into Pete’s knee, his bad one from soccer, but Pete managed to use to force from Patrick’s kick against him and swept his feet out from under him.

     Pete had Patrick pinned within seconds, but Patrick was trying his damndest to try to get up. He managed to head butt Pete in the neck and throw him off, but his kick to the balls was cut off when Andy grabbed him from behind and pulled him away. Instinctively, he went completely still in the grasp of a much stronger being, but very quickly he started resisting again. “Lemme go!” He screamed, pitching a fit until Andy let him down. Patrick hadn’t even realized that Pete got him in the nose until he felt warm blood drip down his face. Across from him, in Joe’s grip, Pete had yet another busted lip and the start of a nasty bruise on his jaw. 

     “Right,” Andy said, his voice almost a growl. “If you two keep fighting, we are turning this van around and this band will cease to exist. Now, you’re going to sit next to each other for the rest of the night and think about what you’ve done,” and with that, he turned on heel and marched back to the van. “Yes, Mom,” Patrick muttered, his voice high and nasally in mockery.

     In the van once more, Pete leaned across Patrick’s lap. “I mean it, Trick. I’m...sorry. I said something really dumb,” Patrick scoffed. “Damn right you did,” he muttered, even though he already forgave Pete. The fight broke some kind of tension between them, and Patrick hadn’t felt this comfortable around Pete since the collar incident. He stroked Pete’s greasy hair. “Seriously. I didn’t mean any of it-“

     “It’s okay, Pete. We fought it out, it’s over and done with,” Patrick said, already half asleep. “Lemme sleep,” he muttered. He wasn’t awake to hear Pete’s response.

     The next day, they had a show. Patrick had a black eye and Pete’s jaw wasn’t looking too good (apparently, Patrick managed to almost knock out a tooth. Pete yanked it out himself at two in the morning), but he felt fantastic. No stage fright, hardly any anxiety, and a smile on his face. He vaguely wondered if it was a dream, but it was way too vivid. 

     This wasn’t a dream. This was Patrick, hardly even nervous, onstage, in front of maybe fifty people, not shaking, proud, even though everyone could see everything about him, his collar, his clothes, his awkward chubbiness, his horrible clothing choices, his general Omega-ness, but they didn’t care and Patrick didn’t care as he belted out the words to the songs.  
     They sounded terrible that night, and Joe bruised, maybe even broke a rib because he fell because he was spinning around like an idiot during the last song and Andy broke both of his drumsticks and Pete snapped a bass string and Patrick’s voice broke more times than he could count, but the crowd seemed to love it and and they actually got the money they asked for and Patrick didn’t even try to push Pete away when he kissed him.

      They managed to get an actual hotel with actual beds and an actual shower for the first time since tour started, even though they all had to share, and Patrick felt even better. 

     “Patrick, fucking golden, my man! Golden!” Pete screeched, pouncing on Patrick just as he was dozing off. “Best fuckin’ part of my life,” he said, softer this time, and Patrick, well. Pete had grown on him, too. Maybe. Just a little. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Follow me on tumblr, @jaytylera-needgoodgayshit.


	5. I’m Like a Junkie Tying Off For the Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick couldn’t really hear that well over the ringing in his ears. He knew Pete had his head cradled in his lap as they rushed to the nearest hospital, and Pete was muttering soothing things above him, talking about everything from his Nana’s sauce recipe to how he quit smoking.  
> Oh. Patrick didn’t know he quit smoking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Warning: a lot happens in this chapter. Attempted rape if you squint, but mostly just someone gets beat up real good. Anyway, chapter title taken from “Still Breathing” by Green Day, which y’all should totally go listen to.

      Patrick could usually tell if he was about to go into heat by the way he felt, or how he smelled, or his sex drive, but other times, the symptoms were more embarrassing, like how his chest puffed out into tiny breasts in the days before his heat. “Heat tits!” Pete would cackle, before Patrick cracked him over the head with a drumstick, successfully silencing him for a full thirty seconds before he was at it again. 

     Patrick was also more irritable in the days before his heat, mostly because he was insanely horny. All. The damn. Time. 

     He could usually also tell the number of days before his heat hit. He started getting symptoms about ten days before. They’d been on tour for two weeks now, and a week in, he got really, really bitchy about everything from dropping a gummi worm to Pete snapping yet another bass string. Two days later, his scent shifted, driving everyone in the van absolutely insane, because every few hours they’d have to stop and let Patrick scrub off in a gas station so he didn’t attract any stray Alphas at the venues they played at.

     And now, just yesterday, Patrick’s chest had puffed into tiny, barely-there breasts. He’d only had that happen to him five times before, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen and his estrogen was especially high in the days before his heat. The heats themselves  only lasted two days, but they were some of the roughest ones he’d ever had, and he’d come to associate breasts with rough heats. He prayed this one wouldn’t be as bad.

     When they stopped at a gas station to scrub off and refuel, both the van and themselves, Patrick noticed something odd. A young Alpha female was behind the counter, not a day over twenty, and she stared at him openly. Normally, Patrick would have paid this no mind and just let her stare, but Pete suddenly got protective, setting one hand on Patrick’s waist and the other on his neck and pulling him into his chest and- was that a  _growl_ Patrick heard? The girl immediately turned away, seemingly embarrassed, and started ringing up her customer.

     In the bathroom, while Patrick layered on another coat of scent-neutralizing deodorant, he heard Pete muttering something to himself. “What is it, Pete?” Patrick asked, turning towards to him, shirt still off. “She shouldn’t have looked at you like that, Patrick. She was eyeing you down like a piece of meat and she shouldn’t have done that, and-and it shouldn’t be okay for her to do that, and you shouldn’t have to just...just  _let her_ look at you like that and it’s sick. It’s disgusting and-“

     Patrick put a hand over Pete’s mouth to shut him up. “Pete, don’t worry about it. I’m used to it, and even if I wasn’t, it’s not my place to stop her, or even speak to her. She’s above me, remember? She’s an Alpha, I’m an Omega, and I’m unclaimed, so she has every right to look at me how she damn well pleases. It’s not good, but it’s life, and will be probably forever,” Patrick didn’t mean for it to come out so snappy. He lowered his hand and Pete stared at him. “Let me scent you,” he said, and Patrick had to resist the urge to scream right then.

     He gawped at Pete, mouth open like a fish. “Excuse me?” He said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks and his chest tighten. Stupid estrogen, giving him fucking  _tits,_ and Pete could probably see them and fuck, why didn’t he put his shirt back on?

     “Not, like, in a weird way, I’m not asking to bite you, but...if I scent you, people might stop staring at you like that, because they’ll think you’re claimed, that you have an Alpha and...” Pete trailed off, obviously trying to make Patrick see a point that Patrick really didn’t want to see. 

     Patrick wasn’t sure what to do. His hormones and the primitive part of his brain, as well as the small crush he still harbored in Pete, screamed at him to let Pete do a whole lot more than just scent him, but the rational side of him was vomiting and telling him to run all the way back to Wilmette and never speak to Pete again.

     Unfortunately, Patrick was about to go into heat, and the emotional, hormonal, primitive part of his brain controlled most of his actions. He tried to stop himself from agreeing, he really did, but when he thought about being wrapped in Pete’s stupidly comforting scent,  24/7, he just...broke. “Okay, just don’t...kiss me or anything like that,” Patrick muttered, taking a step closer to Pete, whose eyes flicked to his chest (why, oh why had Patrick not put a shirt on?!) before moving back to his eyes.

     Slowly, almost reverently, Pete stepped towards Patrick. There was a look in his eyes that Patrick couldn’t quite decide, something between raw, instinctive protectiveness, and barely restrained lust. Patrick really couldn’t help the soft whimper and wave of hormones he let out. Pete’s nostrils flared, and from where Patrick was cowering slightly, he could see just a little bit up Pete’s nose. It was gross and kind of funny, but that didn’t stop Patrick from finding Pete intimidating at the moment.

     Softly, Pete set a hand on Patrick’s bare bicep. Pete’s skin was fever-hot, and Patrick was sure he’d be burned by the end of this. Pete broke him out of his thoughts by nuzzling at Patrick’s scent gland, right above his collar, nipping slightly, just enough for Patrick to gasp slightly and release more pheromones. Anyone entering the bathroom at that moment would have been suffocated.

    It seemed like it took a lot longer than necessary, but finally Pete seemed satisfied with his work of making Patrick reek of Alpha. Patrick was glad that Pete couldn’t feel Patrick’s hard-on pressing against his hip, or at least, was nice enough not to say anything about it.

     Pete pulled back and stared for a moment, and Patrick felt naked under his gaze, especially when Pete’s gaze lingered on his chest. “I think that’ll keep anyone off of you,” Pete said, his voice slightly dark. Patrick swallowed around the lump in his throat and replied, “Yeah, I think so,”

     Patrick was still shaking when he got back into the van and Joe screamed that he smelled even worse.

 

 

> * * *

     The show that night was crowded, more crowded than usual, and it was an over-21 show, meaning that Joe’s and Patrick’s hands were marked with giant black X’s and the meager security looked at all of them like dirt. It didn’t help that Patrick’s nerves were running on overdrive from having been scented earlier, and, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone  _ever,_ but when Pete was napping and Joe was driving and Andy had his headphones jammed over his ears, Patrick jerked off with Pete’s scent in his nose and Pete’s hoodie in the hand that wasn’t busy. He hadn’t cum that hard since he was fifteen. So, nobody could really blame him when he screamed when someone pushed passed him, and Pete couldn’t really be blamed for threatening to kill the girl who pushed him. Sometimes Pete was okay, Patrick supposed.

     After the set, Patrick sat at the bar, alone, drinking a ginger ale that the bartender had kindly given him for free, praying that reeking of Pete would keep any stray Alphas away, and watching Pete and Joe haggling for free beer (Joe’s black X marking him as underage had sweated off) while Andy stood a distance away, watching disapprovingly.

     It seemed like as soon as the other three members of his band got up to go smoke (or rather, smoke and watch in disapproval, much like a dad), Patrick was cornered. Three Alphas and Beta, all looking at him like he was fresh meat and they were starving men. Immediately, Patrick got scared and looked to the bartender for help, but the bartender seemed to have vanished, probably to the bathroom or something. Patrick couldn’t even speak before he was picked up and thrown over a bulky shoulder, and someone held his head against the guy’s shirt who was carrying him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, shit, he was blacking out, he had a face-full of fabric blocking his nose and his mouth and a strong hand on his head and he was blacking out and...

     The next thing he registered was shouting, followed by  _painpainpain_ and he couldn’t think. Before he could force himself to sit up, Pete was there, terror written all over his face. Patrick coughed and felt something warm, wet, and gooey come up. Blood, he realized belatedly. He’d likely been kicked in the gut. “Andy! Andy!” Pete screamed, his voice more scared than Patrick had ever heard it, and there was more yelling, and then some scuffling and then Andy was by his side as well, and Patrick vaguely heard him say, “Jesus fuck, he’s messed up. Four big guys on one little guy’s not exactly a fair fight, but this...he must not have been able to fight back at all...”

     Patrick made a soft groaning noise and moved his limbs, one at a time, to make sure they were still there and not broke. They felt fine, nothing was broken, but he wasn’t sure about his face or his body. Pete buries his face in Patrick’s neck and began scenting him again, quickly calming him down. “Shh, shh, we got you. Can you stand, or do you need some help?” Pete asked gently, brushing Patrick’s hair out of his face. Patrick rolled his eyes best he could, but the second he let them start to drop, he passed out again.

     “He’s conscious!” Patrick heard, and barely realized that he was being carried between Andy and Joe, to the van, with Pete hovering over him protectively. “Hey, Trick, stop passing out on us, okay? We’re taking you to the doctor, gonna get all fixed up, okay? And then...you’re going home, you can go home. Does that sound good?” For once, it didn’t. Patrick wanted nothing more than to stay with these guys. Sure, Pete infuriated him, Joe smelled like pot smoke, and Andy never showered, but...he was making music. He was happy here. He couldn’t let one bad experience ruin it all.

     He hadn’t even realized he passed out again.

     “...head wound, I think. Jesus, look at the size of that lump...is it bleeding?” Patrick heard Andy muttering, and barely noticed the flashlight being shone onto his head. “They must have gotten you in the head, buddy,” Andy said, noticing that Patrick woke back up. “I think you’ve got a nasty concussion, Patrick. Pete, keep him focused and awake. If he passes out again, it may be worse than a concussion, okay?”

     And with that, Andy was crawling back to the front, where Joe was swearing and going approximately twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. 

     Patrick couldn’t really hear that well over the ringing that had started in his ears. He knew Pete moved so that he had Patrick’s head cradled in his lap as they rushed to the nearest hospital, and Pete was muttering soothing things above him, talking about everything from his Nana’s sauce recipe to how he quit smoking.  
Oh. Patrick didn’t know he quit smoking. Maybe he should have guessed from the lack of tobacco smell on his breath that morning.

     As soon as they got to the hospital, apparently Andy called them while he was out,  Patrick was loaded onto a bed and Pete was following him, only stopping when two nurses held him back. 

     The last thing he heard before he blacked out was, “Don’t you dare die on me, Patrick! I need you too much for that!” and the world faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Also, sorry I haven’t updated in 20,575,037,937 years, I’ve been quite busy taking and studying for (procrastinating over) my exams! But I hope this chapter, er...fills your needs? I guess? This is not a happy chapter, so I mean...I don’t know what to tell y’all. Also, guys. Wear protection.  
> My friend got pregnant and now her family kicked her out and she has since started living with me. So. Use protection. Please. End of my personal life yammering.


	6. Hold Me Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete’s breath was hot and damp against his neck, and Patrick was practically drowning in pheromones while Pete dry humped him. In the few parts of his brain that were still coherent (see also: not concerned about being in heat and PeteAlphaTouchPlease), Patrick couldn’t believe he was her with Pete, in a shitty motel room, humping each other through their clothes like horny teenagers. At least Patrick had the excuse of actually being a horny teenager, and Pete...had the excuse of Patrick throwing him into rut early.  
> Not that either of them really cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not even going to mention what song I took the title from, because it should be fairly obvious, I’m only going to mention that school is finally done, as well as exams, so I have a lot more time to dedicate to writing.

    Patrick spent a full two days in the hospital with a concussion. The food wasn’t as shitty as people said it was, but it was still pretty terrible. He couldn’t eat the meatloaf they wanted to serve him (thank god for vegetarianism) so he got an over cooked veggie burger both nights instead.

     His heat came three days later, and saying it wasn’t fun for anyone was an understatement.

     It hit him in the middle of the night, with Pete driving and Joe and Andy snoozing in the back. Patrick was dozing off himself, letting the dull roar of the engine and the soft sound of staticky music from the radio lull him to sleep even though it was his job to make sure Pete didn’t conk out. At first, he didn’t think anything of it, he’d been woken up by overly insistent boners before, and he wasn’t really wet, so he just went back to sleep.

     It was sunrise when he woke up again, and when he opened his eyes, even the faint amount of sun shining through the dirty windshield was too much. He groaned and pulled his hat over his face. It took him a moment to completely wake up, but he very quickly noticed exactly how hard he was, and how he was starting to get wet, too. He had maybe an hour more of coherency before he needed to be away from the others or else he’d jump one of them (see also: Pete had no self-restraint, so he’d probably let Patrick jump him.)

     “Pete,” he muttered woozily, turning in his seat to look at him. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and there was a tendon sticking out in his jaw from how hard he was gritting his teeth. “I know, I know,” Pete said back, his voice strained. “Everyone knows, you fucking stink of heat,” he muttered, probably thinking Patrick couldn’t hear him. Patrick vaguely remembered that Pete had a rut just before tour started, and would likely rut again sometime in about a week or so. Patrick hoped being in heat around Pete wouldn’t trigger an early rut.

     “We’ll get a motel for a few days, we have some extra cash, okay?” Andy said in a strained, yet comforting voice, making Patrick jump. He’d forgotten anyone else existed for a moment. “We’ll get separate rooms, so you can...yeah,” he muttered, coming forward and rubbing Patrick’s shoulder soothingly. Even though Andy was just a Beta, Patrick’s body didn’t care, because  _touch, hands, warm, strong ,_ and he reacted accordingly.

     He moved so that his cheek was pressed into Andy’s palm, humming softly at the feel of his callused palm. Andy jerked his hand away and Patrick poured at the loss. He was quickly losing coherency, barely able to recognize his own band. If someone asked him to play a guitar, he would have broken it. The parts of him that were still conscious, and would likely remain conscious, but unspoken throughout his heat, blamed it on Pete, because, come on, when is a situation not appropriate to blame on Pete?

     When they got to the motel, it was agreed upon that someone should be with Patrick at all times in case someone tries to kidnap him. They’d go in shifts, much like with driving, and under no circumstances were they to be in the same place as Patrick. If Patrick was in the main part of the room, stay in the bathroom. If Patrick was in the bathroom, stay with the beds, unless Patrick was asleep. Patrick didn’t really care, he kind of just wanted to jerk off (and maybe fuck Pete and then the hotel manager and then his brother and then that girl over there. Heats did weird shit to Patrick that he didn’t really want to think about) oh, about five hours ago.

     Joe took first shift, as he’d known Patrick the longest and had lived through a few of his heats. Immediately, he went into the bathroom and bolted the door shut while Patrick wasted no time shucking his clothes. The back of his boxers were slightly wet, so they’d have to be tossed (laundry was almost nonexistent on tour, apparently) but his pants were almost completely dry, so he made sure to stuff them back into his bag. Later, though. His dick was being too insistent for anything other than enthusiastic jerking off until Joe had had enough of being in the bathroom.

    Patrick managed to squeeze four orgasms into two hours, until Joe started complaining about the smell from the bathroom and made Patrick go take a shower. Patrick set the temperature of the water as cold as it would go, trying somewhat successfully to clear his head. Heats were always better after a couple of heated jerk-off sessions, and the cold shower managed to shock his system enough that he could function a little better. He still stunk when he came back into the room forty minutes later, in a pair of gym shorts and a ratty t-shirt that he was pretty sure his cat (rest in peace, Mittens) had had kittens on, and Joe looked a little green as Patrick switched on the TV. “I don’t smell that bad,” Patrick slurred softly, slumping onto the other bed. “You smell like asshole,” Joe said back fake cheerfully, stuffing another Dorito into his mouth as he stood up and stole the remote from Patrick and changed the channel to some random comedy. Patrick was already starting to fall asleep, unable to focus on any of the jokes. “You only say that ‘cause you’re sad you can’t get any of this,” Patrick yawned out, pressing his face into the pillow. He was asleep before he could hear Joe’s reply.

     He woke up a few times, mostly to jack off (one particularly memorable fantasy was Pe- an Alpha holding him down and licking at his hole furiously until he cried and then fucking him within an inch of his life while he moaned and drooled and screamed and the Alpha knitted him before gently shushing him and kissing his neck and his face and his hair and telling him he was beautiful while they waited for the knot to go down and whiskey eyes looked at him adoringly and a wide mouth kissed him and he managed to cum twice to that idea with his fingers buried in his ass. He was still embarrassed thirty minutes later when he jerked off to it again.) 

     He did notice Joe leaving and Andy quickly taking his place, locking himself up in the bathroom with his iPod and his headphones and probably showering with all his clothes on and crying while Patrick beat off in the next room. Not that Patrick cared, he was too busy beating off. 

     By the time it was Pete’s shift, Patrick felt woozy and a little unsteady, even just laying on the bed. This was one of the roughest heats he’d ever had, and his chest had become so sensitive he could hardly lay on his stomach without pinching something and almost screaming at the pain. By the time Pete came into the room and Andy rushed out, Patrick’s vision was hazy, and not just because his glasses were lost somewhere on the bedside table, and his breathing was uneven. In the back of his mind, he wondered who the fuck’s idea it was to have an Alpha close to rut near him while he was in heat, let alone Pete near him when he was in heat, but most of him didn’t care as he whines softly and moved subtly closer to Pete, who immediately broke the rules and sat down on the second bed, eyes glazed over with something Patrick couldn’t identify. 

     “Patrick...” Pete muttered, his voice low and husky and dripping with honey-sweet lust, and softly, gently, pressed a hand to Patrick’s fever-red skin. Pete’s hand was like a red-hot poker against his skin, rough and dry and hot on his face. “Trick...I...shit,” he said, tangling his fingers into the coarse hair of Patrick’s sideburns. Patrick mewled quietly, moving his face closer to Pete’s hand, noticing the difference in Pete’s scent for the first time since he’d walked in. “Fuckin’...put me into rut, Jesus Christ, Trick,” and fuck, fuckfuckfuck, that’s what the difference in Pete’s scent was, Pete was fucking rutting. Normally, Patrick would push Pete as far away from him as possible, but now...now, he moved to pull Pete closer, making soft trilling sounds in the back of his throat, his body trying in every way to pull Pete closer, get Pete naked, get his knot. His mind however, was torn. On one hand, there was the sane part of Patrick’s mind, smaller than normal and a little irritating at the moment, saying that he needed to stop, force himself to let go and stop making those goddamn embarrassing noises. The rest of Patrick’s brain was just yelling at him to yank Pete’s pants off and stuff Pete’s cock into his mouth. He blamed Pete, because...come on, it’s Pete.

     Pete seemed to have no such qualms about jumping into bed with Patrick, though, quite literally. Slowly, he got up off the other bed and stood over Patrick, his hand still on Patrick’s face. Patrick grabbed his wrist and held him there, any kind of touch reassuring, grounding,  _safe._ “Pete, please...” Patrick didn’t recognize his own voice, raw and raspy and soft and wow, he sounded like a goddamn Omega. Curse fucking biology. “Patrick, I...” Pete said, stroking Patrick’s cheekbone with his thumb and seeming to say  _fuck it,_ as he climbed onto the bed and moved Patrick so that he was laying on his back. 

     “Beautiful, ‘Trick...” Pete whispered wetly into his ear, making Patrick shudder and pull Pete closer, wrapping his legs around Pete’s narrow hips. Pete kissed neck none-too-chastely, tongue licking over sweaty skin and teeth biting hard enough almost to break skin and nosing roughly at Patrick’s scent gland. Patrick’s hips bucked up when Pete bit down there, too, and he felt a little bit of slick start to build up between his cheeks. “Fuck...” Pete growled out, moving a little bit between Patrick’s legs and fuck, Pete was just as hard as Patrick was, and those ridiculously tight skinny jeans were making everything so much more obvious. 

     Pete smelled like a mixture of musk, sweat, and menthol, the trademark smell of an Alpha, especially one in rut, and underneath it all, there was something undeniably Pete, something sweet like candy, something bitter like the remnants of tobacco smoke, something dirty like sex. Patrick craved more, nosing softly at Pete’s scent gland and almost moaning aloud at the cloud of pheromones Pete let out. Pete moved a little more, hips jerking out little aborted thrusts, grinding slowly against Patrick and fix it felt good, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

    Pete’s breath was hot and damp against his neck, and Patrick was practically drowning in pheromones while Pete dry humped him. In the few parts of his brain that were still coherent (see also: not concerned about being in heat and PeteAlphaTouchPlease), Patrick couldn’t believe he was here with Pete, in a shitty motel room, humping each other through their clothes like horny teenagers. At least Patrick had the excuse of actually being a horny teenager, and Pete...had the excuse of Patrick throwing him into rut early.  
Not that either of them really cared.    

     Sweet, almost painful warmth started building up in Patrick’s belly, and he felt more slick slide out of him, likely ruining the sweatpants even more. Pete didn’t seem to mind though, as he sped up his movements, short little jerky thrusts changing to slow, almost sensual rolling movements and Patrick immediately knew that this would be over embarrassingly quickly. “Pete...” he said through gritted teeth, hands fisted in the back of Pete’s stupid band shirt, “‘m gonna...” his voice grew slurred as his orgasm approached, hips bucking up to meet Pete’s, fingers almost tearing Pete’s shirt, Pete’s lips mouthing gently over his scent gland and-

     “Fuck!” Patrick nearly screamed as he came rather violently, and almost unexpectedly. He heard Pete’s sharp, sudden intake of breath and then felt the bulge pressed against him grow slightly, warmer where Pete came in his pants.

     Pete groaned softly and pulled away, moving them so they were facing the other bed. “Shit...” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t surprise-knotted like that since I was a teenager. Haven’t cum in my damn pants like that either for a long time. You’re good, Patty, real good,” Patrick heard Pete removing his own soiled pants and then he took Patrick’s off, too, not caring that Patrick was now completely naked.

     Pete must have grabbed extra pants from Patrick’s bag, because when he climbed back into bed with Patrick, there was fabric brushing his bare ass as Pete threw a possessive arm around him. “Mmmm...” Patrick murmured sleepily, turning so that he was pressed into Pete’s (bare) chest. Pete was like a human furnace, warm and dry and a little smelly, but he really didn’t mind because the smelly was a good smelly, the smell of after-sex sweat and the last remnants of tobacco smoke from when Pete still sucked down cancer sticks like nothing to the general greasiness that was the smell of Touring Pete Wentz.

     The only thing that troubled Patrick was Pete’s last words before sleep: “This was a mistake. We never speak of this again.”          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Also, wow, how many different terms for masturbation did I use? Like, jerk off, jack off, beat off...can someone keep count? I’m a lazy piece of garbage and I don’t wanna do it myself.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
